Predictions
by nice disguise
Summary: Revenge is a dish best served cold and with style.


**Title:** Predictions  
**Fandom:** White Collar  
**Author:** nice_disguise  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers:** up to 2.08 Company Man  
**Word count:** ~4600  
**Characters:** Neal, Peter  
**Genres:** suspense, friendship, h/c  
**Summary:** Revenge is a dish best served cold and with style.

**A/N:** Many thanks to Enfleurage for betaing and Bella Harvest for being generally awesome.

* * *

Four walls with a locked door is a concept that clashes with Neal Caffrey's nature. Peter doesn't just suspect it. His spot on the floor provides him with a perfect view to confirm it. His consultant paces the little room, one hand at his hip, the other raking through his hair, and his expression suggests that he still feels able to escape this predicament by concentrated thinking.

The sight of the restless man already provoked Peter to run the gamut of emotions: fascination, then amusement, then annoyance and then unease. A repeated and repeatedly pointless glance at his watch reveals that one and a half hours have passed since they were locked into this dump of a basement. Perpetrators unidentified, objective unknown, duration of stay possibly until the Sunday after death.

Apparently, Caffrey is still in denial about it. But so is Peter. Peter can tell that Caffrey's brilliant mind has met its boundaries like his hands have met the unrelenting walls. Caffrey is in denial about that too. For once, so is Peter.

He gave up on finding an exit long before Neal did. Instead his freshly laundered suit rubs the dirt off the wall, while he tries to appreciate that his behind warms the concrete and makes its moisture more bearable. He won't give up hope that the moisture is not a result of their predecessors having to pee in the corners.

Neither musty scents nor people can escape this windowless room. The only piece of furnishing is a lightbulb, installed to illuminate the simplistic architecture and resulting dead-end situation.

About three hours ago, weapons were pulled up, black hoods put on, a tracking anklet cut off, and the length of the drive obscured even a vague idea of their location. Peter is sure of one thing only: none of these things were part of a White Collar Agent's job description. He ponders whether the cause of this problem is the proximity to Caffrey, but the conman certainly blames the FBI for this inadequate accommodation.

Not at first though. At first he still had that sparkle in his eyes, the one that indicates that Neal is exactly where he wants to be. The sign that he's spotting a challenge, a chance to test his wits, preferably a tightrope walk in dangerous territory; something he seems to need to give his life a purpose. And Peter is convinced that certain times Neal does it solely to push the limits of his handler.

In this place, however, the options were exhausted in minutes. None of the bricks in the walls retreated to magically open a secret passageway. But Neal doesn't retreat either. Perhaps he can't.

Peter feels a sudden surge of pity for his consultant and taps the ground to his side.

"Come, sit down."

Neal turns to face him but his cocked head conveys that Peter made an utterly absurd proposal. Peter's powers of persuasion may be less convincing when he needs to wipe his hand on his pants.

"No thanks, I'm not getting down to the level of the roaches."

"I'd be grateful if this place had roaches. They'd make a tasty dinner."

This, at last, elicits a weary smile from the man and he lowers himself to the offered spot with a fake groan. Amused, Peter observes as Neal wiggles his butt on the ground and tugs his suit back into shape. The collar appears too tight, but he shows no signs of planning to loosen his tie.

Reasonably satisfied, Neal stares into the room, while Peter's stare remains firmly fixed on him. Neal looks a little defeated and a little angry about it, his tone of voice accordingly.

"So. Are we going to play I Spy or is it time to reveal our innermost feelings?"

Peter snaps out of his trance and inhales briefly. "I do have a question."

Neal looks at him with widened eyes, but then he flutters his lashes.

"Whether I love you as much as you love me?"

Peter has just enough energy left to roll his eyes.

"It's been three hours and your suit still looks like you plan on going out tonight."

Neal shrugs and turns away. Peter believes that he saw the slightest of a twitch on his face. One that appears often since the day Kate died, one that Neal tries to cover up with a quick adjustment of his facial expression. Peter knows Neal, he also suspects that Neal is aware of it as much as he is averse to it. In his line of work he prefers to be unpredictable.

With his gaze still averted and his voice lowered, Neal speaks. "It lets me believe I'm still..."

Peter sees him tighten his jaw and knows that Neal won't finish. Peter ponders, sure of the words but unsure of whether to say them.

"In control?"

Neal shoots him a look, not of surprise, more of regret. Neal doesn't need to, but he nods, and that's when Peter feels grateful for his consultant's honesty. Their current predicament may have contributed, but they seem to have reached a certain kind of intimacy. Only now, Peter feels nervous and questions how he entered this precarious position. Such emotional issues clearly exceed his area of expertise.

At the sound of keys he relaxes, if only briefly. As the heavy door opens, Peter and Neal jump to their feet, not out of courtesy but to defend themselves if necessary. They watch an armed thug enter, followed by Matthew Keller. He's half the other man's size but still convinced of his grandeur.

Peter prevents his jaw from dropping, instead his eyebrows knit as tight as possible. His eyes travel from Keller to Neal, who has restored his unreadable conman facade but is probably happy to have his tie still in order.

Neal is the first to speak. "The prison cell was too small for your ego?"

Keller lowers his head but when it comes back up, the familiar smug grin is firmly in place.

"Just making good on my promise. It's nice to see you again, Caffrey. Pity that we meet under these unpleasant circumstances. But then again, I think this place is just the right size for the man that you are."

Peter decides to cut in before it escalates into a pissing contest.

"Try to think about the cell you'll get for kidnapping an FBI agent."

"Kidnapping, huh?" Keller feigns surprise. "You're free to go." He gestures towards the open door in a theatric manner. "If..."

He's the only one who deems the dramatic pause appropriate.

"If what?" Peter growls, even though he hates to fuel the man's little mind games.

"If you play a little game with me. You participate and I let you go. No matter the outcome."

Peter rolls his eyes in a matching overdone fashion but uses the moment to quell anger and a rising anxiety. When he opens his mouth, so does Neal, only Neal asks, "What's the game?" and Peter asks, "What's the catch?"

The smug grin widens, accompanied by a finger snapping. A second and third henchman enter with a bar stool and a tray of glasses. They place the tray on the stool between Keller and the involuntary players.

Peter sizes up the men as they vanish back into the hallway; bulky and armed, chances of tackling them slim to none. Regardless, he alters his posture, chin up, chest out, hands placed at his hips. If he's defeated no one needs to see it.

Keller himself succeeds in looking down on them while looking up. In case he fails, he averts his eyes and acts indifferent.

"Gentlemen. What we have here are four glasses of champagne, three players, two drinks spiked with poison, and it's your one chance to get out."

Peter grunts through clenched teeth. "So this time you want to get locked up for life."

"Oh, it ain't deadly. If you're treated quickly. And if the doctors find out what poison it is."

Peter tenses up as his mind recalls the undesired side effects of the Armagnac he shared with Wesley Kent. A quick glance sideways reveals an equally quick but mostly concerned look of his consultant. He hasn't forgotten either.

"That's a lot of _if_s."

"See," Keller slits his eyes, convinced he already made himself perfectly clear, "the option not to play only has a _when_."

As a man of common sense, Peter wants nothing to do with this atrocious proposal. As an FBI agent, he needs to weigh all options and learn the plan of the psychopath.

"For all we know, all four of the drinks are spiked."

At that, Peter hears a tongue clicking and peers at Neal. He expects a rueful expression that wants to say, 'Now I know what happens when I socialize with the wrong crowd,' but instead the boy has the nerve to have the sparkle in his eyes. A game quite to Caffrey's liking? Peter should have known.

Neal nods his head in Keller's direction. "He said three players."

Keller's crooked smile is genuine. At least one of them catches on to his ingenious plan and probably also appreciates its elegant presentation.

"That's correct. In fact, I want to show you that I'm an honest citizen and that we're all playing on the same field. I'll have a drink with you."

"You're crazy," Peter states while his contempt turns into utter disbelief.

Their host acts unfazed. "Is that right? I say, what's life without a little thrill. I'm sure Mr. Caffrey here agrees."

As Keller's expectant gaze and Peter's resentful glare reach the conman, he shifts from one foot to another, then tilts his head and opens his mouth. Whatever he's about to say, Peter won't let it come that far.

"You're seriously considering this?"

"Peter," Neal extends his arms, "unless the both of us are poisoned, we'll make it out of here." According to his gesture, he thinks of his statement not only as obvious but also trivial. "The chances work in our favor."

Peter wipes his hands across his face to check once more whether all this is part of reality.

"All right." He sighs. "Let me hear it."

A mere second later Neal starts rattling it off, and right now, this fact alone is reason enough to hate him.

"There are six possible outcomes. Everyone's individual chance of drinking poison is 50 percent. The chance that at least one of the two of us drinks poison is 83 percent. But the chance that the both of us drink it is only 17 percent."

Peter stares at him with nothing more than a blank expression. "I don't like any of those chances."

Keller leans a few inches forward. "Keep in mind, chances of getting out of here without playing? Zero percent."

When he sees that neither one of them stirs from his spot, he adds, "How 'bout I'll make it easier. I'll start."

He grabs one of the flutes, but the movement calls Peter into action. "Hold on. This glass is ours."

Openly proud of thinking like a psychopath, Peter's mood changes instantly when Neal starts squirming, "Maybe that's exactly..."

"What he wants," Peter completes the sentence but thinks this situation has long grown beyond words.

He spins once around his axis, only to realize that the walls are still present and very solid.

He turns to Keller. "You want a leveled playing field?" He moves his index finger in a circle. "Turn around, eyes on the wall."

Keller's forehead creases but he forces a smile and complies.

Neal understands without gestures. He shuffles the glasses' positions and closely inspects the identical appearing drinks. When he's finished, it takes a few seconds before he meets Peter's gaze. His expression is now a bit more rueful, eyes less sparkling and slightly widened.

Peter nods and neglects to comment. He knew all along that nothing is as easy as Caffrey envisions. He knows he shouldn't, but just this once he's satisfied to see the hint of fear in the younger man's eyes.

"All right," Peter says with a loud voice and a fake confidence.

Once Keller has turned around, he adds, "Knock yourself out. And I mean that literally."

The smug grin returns until the man raises a glass to them, performing his role in a well-enacted play of a friendly celebration. While he drinks with relish, a shiver runs down Peter's spine. This is no play, this may be Keller's favorite kind of parlor game each Friday night. The question remains whether his guests can show up for a rematch.

Keller puts the empty glass down while he sighs with pleasure, but as he speaks, there's a coldness in his voice that suggests sadistic appetite.

"Your turn. Or you'll rot in this hole 'til you die."

Neal counteracts by presenting his chipper self, flashing his teeth and raising a glass. "Cheers."

As the drink reaches his lips, Peter rips it from his hand. He puts it down, grabs Neal's arm and pulls him five steps farther into the room. At the very least it provides the illusion of a private conversation.

"Your approach 'I know everything, I can do anything, I'm infallible and invincible' won't work here. We have no idea how quickly and how badly the poison will affect us, or even just how far we are from civilization. We have no idea whether Keller is telling the truth, or even just whether he'll keep his word."

"I know him," Neal retorts with a questioning look.

Peter can no longer hold back an impatient sigh. "You may be able to predict the outcome of the game but not the agenda of Matthew Keller."

Neal shrugs. "Everyone's predictable."

The conman is so very convinced of himself and his worldview that his face displays downright innocence. Peter, immune to the expression, would like to beat that attitude out of him. Instead he reminds himself of his even-tempered character and worms himself into his consultant's mindset.

He points towards Keller, his eyes stay trained on Neal.

"You really intend to give that bastard exactly what he wants?"

Neal cracks a smile and remains silent, a clear sign that he thinks of Peter as predictable and that he won't be manipulated.

Peter closes his eyes to collect himself, then he grips Neal's shoulders with care but determination and whispers with emphasis.

"We're better off waiting here for help. Jones and Diana may already have a lead."

Neal responds in a normal voice as if he wants to publicly side with Keller.

"What do you think are the chances that we're found here alive?"

Peter knows they're small, but he prefers them to signing up for Russian roulette.

"Damn it, Neal, this isn't a game anymore. This is life and death."

There's the twitch in Neal's face again. Not only does it tell Peter who's on Neal's mind but what's going on with him. He's neither spared the pain of the realization nor the tremble it causes in his voice.

"I don't care whether you're still afraid of death or not. I am. I have a wife at home who I love more than anything. I won't make her a widow by my own choice."

Neal swallows once, his expression remains stoic but he responds to the harsh words in a trustful tone.

"That's exactly why we need to do what Keller says. It's our only chance."

Peter retracts his hands from Neal's shoulders but his gaze gets caught by the crinkles he left there. Without once looking at Neal's face, without much thinking about it, he guides his hands back to smooth them out.

The gesture means more than what needs to be said. Peter gets to observe how Neal maintains that little bit of control, that little bit of pride that is possible in the face of a seemingly hopeless situation. His consultant walks to the tray with a confident stride and treats himself to the probable champagne-poison cocktail without hesitation.

Peter knows that it's no longer about who's right. He doesn't know what it's about. The only thing he knows is that he needs to play his part now, because if Neal drank the poison and Keller locks the door, any help arrives too late. Keller knows this as well, he beams with delight at the outcome of their argument, enjoying the bonus of having driven a wedge between them, however briefly.

Peter decides not to waste another thought on the conniving jerk. He turns to Neal who has extended an arm, at its end one of the last two glasses. Neal, too, must ignore Keller's presence because his face reveals a sadness that normally no one is allowed to see. Peter can tell that the consequences have reached him, that perhaps he doesn't think of his death but the people who will mourn it.

Peter takes the glass and downs the liquid with a single gulp, wishing it could weaken the poison's powers. He still feels it tingling down his throat, while his thoughts are with nothing and no one but Elizabeth. When the glass is emptied, he barely refrains from smashing it against the wall. His conscience tells him to put it back gently and preserve the remnants for a lab.

He'd much rather smash Keller against the wall. Inevitably, the movie starts playing in his head, but as it does, Peter realizes that life already imitates art. Keller sways, then writhes in agony and nearly keels over. While Neal watches the spectacle with furrowed brows, Peter disregards all tact and grins in victory. If justice has a hand in fate, the villain drinks the poison, he and Neal escape unscathed.

When Keller starts fighting for air, the thug at the door starts shifting. He extends his burly arms halfway towards his degrading money source, unsure what to do. Peter interrupts his search for a clever comeback and deliberates snatching the man's gun, then pressing it at Keller's temple as leverage for an escape. He readies himself to put the quickly conceived but solid plan into action, but then Keller straightens and is the picture of health. Peter curses loudly. He should have known. Keller is a brilliant actor. Keller is predictable.

"Sorry, false alarm. But I had to stall so you wouldn't do something stupid after I'm gone, say, stick your fingers in your throats."

Peter doesn't care anymore whether rage or even total defeat is written all over his face.

"So you can still kick the bucket?"

Keller's features distort in disgust.

"How stupid do you think I am? I marked the glasses."

"What?" Peter charges forward, grabs the man by his collar and slams him into the wall. "You son of a bitch. Tell me who drank the poison."

With a bit of delay, Peter's brain informs him to hear the sound of a gun being cocked, in fact alarmingly close to his head. He untangles his fists from Keller's clothes and walks a step backward. Keller has to take care of the crinkles himself.

"Agent Burke. I didn't think you had it in you. See, now I know that Neal searched for someone with the manhood and the guts that he's lacking. What I don't know is why you dig little lapdogs on a leash."

A glance sideways reveals that Neal stares at the ground, pouting only marginally, and Peter is thankful that at least one of them is smart enough not to rise to the bait. Keller is less excited about this development.

"In any way, my hospitality is limited. I should get going. Congrats, you earned your freedom."

On his way to the door he turns around to add what didn't just occur to him. "By the way, my men will do some clean-up around here. So if you don't want to be carried out with the trash, you wait another ten minutes. _If _you can still walk by then."

Peter stiffens and bites his lip. It doesn't matter if they need to evade his goons and their weapon's range, or if it's Keller's final idea to buy time for the threat within them. He won't risk making things worse than they already are.

He won't acknowledge the man's triumph either. While Keller and his henchman trot out the door, Peter focuses on his consultant. His lips are pursed, eyes narrowed and avoiding his. If he's miffed to have missed Keller's markings, he's fine. For now. But he won't get a second chance. Another goon enters to take the glasses and with them, markings, remnants and fingerprints. As soon as he steps outside, the door is slammed shut but not locked up.

A few seconds of silence pass until Peter relaxes, but the tension in his body is replaced by a disconcerting numbness. He exhales a long breath until he hears it quiver and cuts it off in a gulp.

Neal heard too.

"It could be worse. He could have prolonged our stay with an endless monologue."

"Yeah, he must have taken pity on us. I bet he's out there calling us a taxi."

They both chuckle, but it fails to lift the melancholic mood or the unnerving uncertainty. The game isn't over yet. This time it's Neal who sits down and Peter who refuses. He doesn't pace but his mind cycles through the events that brought them to this point. It manages to distract him from their chances that are now even slimmer, helps him chalk up the heat in his body and the tightness in his chest to nothing more than agitation.

"It was crystal clear that we'd end up being the man's puppets. The only game he plays is that of deceit." Peter shakes his head. "Never trust a criminal."

It's too late as his words sink in, and he casts a glance at Neal but it's not exactly apologetic.

Neal responds with an even voice. "He kept his word. The door's open."

His face reveals nothing but tiredness. Peter acknowledges that this isn't the time for post-case evaluations. He lowers himself next to his partner, trying to relax the FBI stance physically as well as mentally. They could both be dead in a couple of minutes.

As his thoughts quiet down, he notices that Neal is sitting beside him with his back hunched and his head lowered. As he speaks, his voice is subdued and raw.

"I'm sorry. Keller is my fault."

Peter feels his stomach churn but the reason is unclear. He folds his arms across his belly and bumps his knee sideways against Neal's.

"Not your fault that he's a selfish son of a bitch."

Neal gawks at him, then his eyes light up and he breaks into a laugh. Judging by his wandering look, however, it's not caused by Peter's charming choice of words but the fact that he's wiping the sweat off his face.

Peter is as dumbfounded as he is irritated. "Why on earth are you laughing?"

The silly grin turns into a cautious smirk. "Ever heard of the placebo effect?"

Peter's mouth falls open and hesitates to form the words. "Are you telling me the whole thing was a sham?"

Neal's features return to their regular form but end up more serious, and Peter is so focused on Neal that he feels the mood changing right within him.

"No. It was real," he answers and avoids Peter's scrutinizing look.

Then it hits Peter. He shifts to kneel in front of his consultant, so Neal can avoid neither looks nor questions and Peter can witness every little twitch.

"You saw the markings. You gave me the last drink that was free of poison."

Neal's eyes try to find the floor. He didn't plan on Peter finding out.

"You've got Elizabeth," he states.

As if it were that simple. That is Neal, either annoyingly complicated or painfully simple. Peter feels a renewed surge of anger, but this time it's directed at the selfless bastard who sits in front of him. Who can see a value in the most ridiculous objects but can so easily disregard his own.

Peter bolts up and walks a circle, doesn't know what to do with his hands or his emotions. As he speaks, he can't keep his finger from pointing at Neal.

"You've known the whole time. You manipulated me. Just as Keller manipulated you. He knew that you'd see the markings and act the way you did. Because it's you who is so damn predictable. Keller orchestrated all this to get a sick gratification from watching you sacrificing yourself for me."

He turns to face the other wall. Whatever emotions are raging within him, he wants them gone. The only thing they'd ensure is anger towards himself for the loss of his emotional detachment. Reluctantly, Peter turns back around to face Neal and an unfamiliar helplessness.

Neal's expression is still a facade of strength and pride but his body betrays him. His skin is already a shade paler and his forehead covered with a sheen of sweat. As he raises a hand it starts trembling, but that's not the strongest clue either. It's the fact that Neal wants to loosen his tie.

Peter is with him in an instant. He unties the knot and is grateful to know what he's feeling. It's responsibility for his consultant, but it's far beyond professional obligation, even beyond gratitude that he may have saved his life. While Peter opens two of the shirt buttons, Neal concentrates on getting air into his lungs. With each of his strained breaths his eyes grow wider, hanging onto Peter's with unhidden fear.

Peter looks at his watch to see when they're allowed to leave, but more to ignore that there's nothing else he can do. He wishes to give Neal some kind of assurance, however contrived it may be. Under Neal's expectant eyes, Peter steadies his hands and tightens his own tie back into shape. Neal's eyebrows rise but soon after, his features soften and he gives a small nod.

Peter is thankful too for what little it did, but not for Neal's eyes losing hold on his. Peter looks at his watch again, now to ignore that everything else says Neal has little time. Peter isn't done with him yet. With both his hands he cups Neal's head, which already seems too heavy for himself.

"Look at me, Neal. I need to know. Does Keller want to keep playing games with you or get rid of you once and for all?"

Neal's only answer is a tired shrug.

"You said you know how he thinks."

"I lied." His voice is barely audible, be it fading strength or the revelation.

Peter lets out the breath he was holding, regretting to learn that Neal did it with no degree of certainty. He wonders whether his turmoil is written all over his face when Neal gathers his strength to say, "I'm not suicidal."

He waits for a sign of hopefulness in his consultant's eyes, but it doesn't show. No longer hiding his despair, he shakes Neal's head.

"Then why'd you do it?"

He watches as Neal tries and struggles to flash his trademark smile. For once, it troubles Peter to see him fail because this smile is supposed to defy all odds. The one that Neal settles on is very small but honest. For once, Neal seems content with less than what he can achieve.

"Keller's not predictable, but you are."

Peter furrows his brows. Neal's eyes have drifted halfway close but Peter still sees trust in them, and then a tiny bit of mischief.

"Chances of Peter Burke getting me home safe and sound? I say pretty good."

_End_


End file.
